The Aftermath of Valentine's Day
by procol harum
Summary: Tom gets drunk on Valentine's Day and wakes up in a strange apartment, not sure why, or where he is. I own nothing.


_Yeah, you can hate me if you've been reading Revenge At Its Finest. Writer's block. I'm thinikng. But here's a little oneshot of Tom getting drunk on V-Day_

_Disclaimer: 21 Jump Street: Produced, aired, and finished before I was ever even born. Point made._

* * *

Tom Hanson slowly pulled himself together. He was trying to regain his position in the land of the conscious, but it seemed to be a very long and painful process. He wasn't sure what had awoken him exactly, but the sharp pain flashing through his skull seemed to be a good clue; one moment he had been asleep, dreaming of sugarplums and... Yeah, right. The next he was waking up due to said sharp pain. Sharp; very sharp. And very, very painful. Not the nicest wake-up call, but probably not the worst, either. But to Tom it seemed pretty damn close. Bright light assaulted his eyes as he attempted to open them, but was momentarily blinded and on instinct, snapped his eyelids shut again. Light was painful; _very_ painful. Again he tried to open his eyes, this time more slowly. Bright light once again assaulted him; his eyelids had been very good at protecting his eyes, and now as they slowly drifted up and over his eyeballs, the protection slowly diminished with them. Tears brimmed the edges between the bottom of his eyes and his skin and he blinked rapidly, trying to get rid of the unwanted moisture. It worked slightly and he used the back of his hand to wipe away the excess tears. 

"Oaah," Tom moaned as his vision came into focus and the pain was once again sharp in his head. He slowly rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, looking around. His vision was still bleary and his mind was definitely not in the right state. What the hell had he done the previous night? "Drinking, lots of drinking," swam into his mind and he sighed. Of course he had drunk a lot; he now had a headache the size of Texas and as he looked around, no idea where he was, either. The carpet under his feet wasn't his; he didn't even **have** a carpet in his living room. Neither was the leather couch he had slept on, or the wallpapered walls – his walls were painted white, after all. Unless he had gotten so drunk he'd been able to redecorate his living room, then he had no clue as to where he was. Maybe he'd gone home with some random girl. Glancing around again, Tom realized that couldn't be an option. There were empty fast-food cartons scattered on the table, along with cassette tapes and video games. A sports magazine, and that was all Tom needed to conclude his opinion; he had either gone home with a guy – he was straight, though – or a girl who was like a guy; messy, into music(although Tom had been with music-loving women before), video games, and sports. Sure, woman liked fast-food or music or sports, but there was rarely an occasion they liked all, and were as well extremely messy. Neither option seemed probable,unless he had gone home with a girl and they'd gone to an apartment owned by a male friend, or maybe her roommate was a guy. That made a little sense, but then, were was the girl? Maybe Tom had been drunk enough to go home with a guy, but that meant he would have had to of been dead drunk, and that meant he'd have a more painful headache and- And all this thinking was killing his hungover state of mind. "Damn it," Tom muttered, rubbing a hand over hi eyes. "Hopefully my companion is still here," was added as a hopeful afterthought.

Tom Hanson stood, angrily moaning as the pain increased, and stood still until it had sunk into a _thump thump_ type of throb, probing against the sides of his temple. It was still painful, but definitely not as bad as the previous pain. That was just plain Hell. Then Tom shivered, cold, and looked down. He was clad only in boxers and a t-shirt; no wonder he was cold. Wait a second, this wasn't his shirt. It was too large for his thin frame, the sleeves hanging past his elbows, and just barely covering the fact he wore boxers underneath. Sure, he had large shirts; he had t-shirts that large, but none were white. And this shirt was definitely white. And none of his shirts were **that** large. Almost, but not quite. What the Hell had he done to end up in another guy's shirt? Especially while he was certainly very, very intoxicated. Damn.

"Hello?" he called out, hoping desperately for an answer. He received none and cursed. This whole situation was looking bad; very, very bad. He continued on, walking across the carpeted living room and to a hallway. A door was at the end and Tom made this his destination; on the way he'd passed a washroom, so it seemed likely this would be a bedroom. A bedroom in which he may find his 'companion'. Hopefully.

And he almost made it.

Tom's bare feet hit the wooden floor with quiet thwacks; walking fast had increased the pain in his head, he had found out while in a hurry to find the owner of the apartment. Now he slowed down in his pace so that there was only a small throbbing in his head and continued walking. And then he tripped; he reached out for something but there was only wall, and he couldn't get a grip on that. He fell to the wooden floor, cursing and moaning as the pain in his head increased to levels of pain he never even knew existed. Well, maybe getting shot was worse, but never this painful. Nope; this was just plain Hell. A blinding, white light, hello I've entered Hell type of pain. And Tom wasn't really certain which was worse, although at the moment this seemed to be it. Tears welled in his eyes and he angrily wiped them away; the moisture blurred his vision and he was really anxious to see what the Hell he had tripped over. Because right now he had an extreme burning hate inside of him that he planned to unleash upon said object.

Seeing it, however, seemed like the worst thing he could have ever done.

Tom Hanson stared at the object, hoping to whoever the Hell was listening that this was all just a dream and that he would wake up any second in his own bed; in his own apartment. That never happened and reality struck him. Hard. Swallowing the bile that had risen in his throat, Tom slowly stood, a stray lock of brown hair fluttering into his vision. He didn't bother to brush it away as he leaned over and picked up the intimidating object. It seemed to taunt him as he held it in his hands, staring intently.

In his hands sat a blue and yellow foam football. One of those footballs that were bought for little kids by overprotective parents. "Now Tommy, you know a real football could hurt you if you were to ever get hit with it," flashed through Tom's mind, yet he didn't care. Because Tom knew only one person who owned this this type of toy; a person who was only a child on the inside. On the outside he was pure man. Pure best friend. Pure Doug Penhall.

A door slammed and Tom dropped the football, jumping slightly at the sudden noise. This couldn't be Doug's apartment; no way had Tom Hanson gotten drunk and done who knows what with Doug Penhall. Done who knows what that ended up with Tom in the other man's clothes, on the other man's couch.

"Tommy? You still here?"

Tom gulped, afraid to face Doug. What if they had slept together? Tom was straight. Pure 'into woman and boobs and nothing else' straight. There was no way he could ever continue that type of relationship with Doug Penhall. They were coworkers, best friends, and nothing else.

"Tommy?"

"Yeah, I'm, uh, I'm out here!" Tom called back, even though he was already making his way back out into the living room.

Doug stood at the front door, two coffees in his hands, and a goofy grin splayed across his face. "Thought you'd left," he said as way of explanation.

"Yeah. You got any aspirin?"

"Hung over, huh? That doesn't surprise me, the way you were drinkin' last night," Doug replied, heading into the kitchen. He set the coffees on the counter and headed for a cupboard. A wave of nausea flashed through Tom's body and he sat back down on the couch, breathing heavily to push the nausea aside. It worked.

A shadow fell over Tom and he looked up to see Doug holding out his hands; in one were two pills, the other, a coffee.

"Uh, thanks," he muttered, taking the offered items. "Uhm, Doug... Why am I here? I mean, why did I, how did I-" Tom stumbled over his choice of words, not entirely sure what to say. Or at least not sure how to piece the words together in a coherent sentence.

Oh," Doug replied. "You were pretty drunk."

"Yeah? Why didn't I just go home?" Tom asked, annoyed at Doug's lack of an explanation. He had already figured out he'd gotten drunk; the whole headache the size of Texas and the short wave of nausea that had recently passed kind of clued him into that fact.

"I repeat; you were pretty drunk," Doug replied with a laugh. "I wasn't exactly going to let you be alone."

"Oh," Tom replied. "This yours?" he asked, picking at the fabric of the shirt nervously.

"Yup," Doug replied simply with no explanation as to why Tom was wearing it. Again, the lack of explanation annoyed Tom.

"Why am I wearing it?" Tom asked, scared of what the answer might be. Did we-"

Doug cut Tom off with a sharp wave of hands, "No! I mean, at the bar, you were drinkin' pretty fast. You got a lot, most of, the beer on your shirt. Didn't think you'd wanna keep wearin' it."

'Oh thank God,' Tom thought with a nervous smile, but instead said, "I-I don't remember anything."

Doug sighed; he was hoping he wouldn't have to explain this to Tom. He looked closer, however, worried about his friend. Tom had sounded scared and lost. "It's just the headache," he explained, "It'll wear off soon."

"Yeah? Good. But why. Why did I get so drunk? I mean, did something happen-"

Tom had been relieved when Doug had told him nothing had happened between the two of them, but was now wondering why he had gotten so drunk. Sure, he'd gotten drunk before, but Tom could never remember why if he had gotten **this **drunk. Which he rarely did, anyways.

"You really don't remember?' Doug questioned. "Well, uh, last night – yesterday, uh, well," Doug stopped, trying to think of the right way to explain this. "Today's February the fifteenth, Tom."

Tom's head fall, dropping between his legs. He ran his hands through his hair and mumbled one simple word, "Dad."

Doug nodded; he had expected this from his friend. He sat beside the younger man and embraced him, wrapping one arm around his slender frame. He allowed Tom's head to fall and rest on his chest, tears soaking the fabric he held, clenched, in his hands. And Doug didn't mind; if he did, then Tom would probably be home alone, getting even more drunk than he already was. Then Doug sighed; the anniversary of Amy's death was only a few weeks away.


End file.
